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Deadly Reunion
Lauren Nichols
When Lindsay Hollis's brother died, so did her passionate, whirlwind marriage to bounty hunter Ike Walker, the man she held responsible. Now nearly two years later, Ike was back, determined to prove once and for all that he wasn't to blame–and Lindsay was damn well going to help him do it.Bringing a killer to justice meant working closely with the man she thought was in her past–and risking the comfortable, safe life she'd struggled to build. But like the criminal who'd targeted her brother, the deep-rooted desire Ike could always evoke refused to stay buried.This could be Lindsay's second chance at love…. If she lived long enough.
Lindsay swallowed hard as the walls she’d built around her heart to keep him out began to crumble.
Dammit, she didn’t want to feel anything for him! But the well-deep emotions Ike could always evoke refused to stay buried.
A heavy feeling of dread settled over her as she tried not to notice how well his shirt fit his broad shoulders. Tried not to admit that no man had ever looked better in jeans and boots, or that the faint shadow on his jaw and longer length of his dark brown hair only added to his blatant masculinity.
Tried to forget how deeply and pathetically she’d loved him during the six months they’d been together.
She failed. If anything, their nearly two years apart only added maturity to his rugged, sexy good looks and made him even more attractive.
Deadly Reunion
Lauren Nichols
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
LAUREN NICHOLS
started writing by accident, so it seems fitting that the word accidental appears in her first three titles for Silhouette. Once eager to illustrate children’s books, she tried to get her foot in that door, only to learn that most publishing houses used their own artists. Then one publisher offered to look at her sketches if she also wrote the tale. During the penning of that story, Lauren fell head over heels in love with writing fiction.
In addition to her novels, Lauren’s romance and mystery short stories have appeared in several leading magazines. She counts her family and friends as her greatest treasures, and strongly believes in the Beatles’ philosophy—“All You Need Is Love.” When this Pennsylvania author isn’t writing or trying unsuccessfully to give up French vanilla cappuccino, she’s traveling or hanging out with her very best friend/husband, Mike.
Lauren loves to hear from her readers. You can contact her at www.laurennichols.com.
For Mike with all my love.
You’re always there for me.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 1
He’d rather be touring hell.
Gunning his black Explorer up the narrow lane and away from the quaint little harbor, Michael “Ike” Walker bit back two years of resentment and continued to scour the street for a rambling, white nineteenth-century Victorian that needed work. He wasn’t looking forward to seeing her again because he knew what kind of reception he’d get. But in his mind he had no choice. With a sudden jolt, he spotted the house, sitting on a double lot—a fair amount of space for homes so close to the water.
Slowing his SUV, he pulled into his ex-wife’s driveway, parked and stepped into the dusky June evening.
He gave the place a cursory inspection as he crossed the yard and ascended the steps to her wraparound porch, determined to keep moving so he didn’t change his mind and trade face-to-face for a phone call.
It was a lot of house for one person, he decided, scowling as he rang the bell. Then again, maybe that “one person” status had changed.
Not that he gave a damn. She was welcome to see and do whatever she pleased now—just as he was. Ike rang the bell a second time, impatient to get this over with.
From deep inside, Lindsay’s lilting “Just a minute” carried through the screens on the jutting windows fronting the house. Then seconds later, she opened the inside door, her eyes widened in shock, and her welcoming smile fell apart.
Time stretched out on tenterhooks.
In the gathering dusk, the low, melancholy horn of a tugboat sounded as their past played out in her pretty, sea-green eyes, all the hurt, all the sadness, all the blame, trembling like heat lightning over dark, rolling waters. And beneath it all, Ike felt that old twitch, that old familiar need, and he hated himself for it. They were over—had been over for eighteen months now.
Finally, she drew a stabilizing breath. “Hello, Ike.”
“Lindsay,” he returned. As usual when he looked at Lindsay, his hormone levels rose in direct relation to everything his gaze touched. Her thick blond hair was sun-streaked and tied back with a ribbon, and she was trim and lightly tanned in fringed, cutoff jeans and a soft green T-shirt that nearly matched her eyes.
It bothered him that she looked so good. Because suddenly he was back in their old, sheet-tangled bed, losing himself in her, feeling her warm breath and soft laughter against his neck. Glorying in the way her body fit so perfectly with his.
But she was waiting for a reason for his visit.
“We need to talk,” he said in a clipped voice, then nodded through the screen door. “Can we do it in there?”
“That depends,” she replied stiffly. “Can we do it without entertaining the neighbors?”
“I can, if you can.”
Her reluctant expression said she doubted it, but she stepped back and allowed him to enter anyway. One boot hit dark, polished hardwood; the second came to rest on the Oriental rug covering most of the elevated landing.
Ike caught a whiff of varnish and potpourri as his gaze quickly slid up the dark oak stairs leading to the second level, then darted into her dramatic cream, rose and burgundy living room, two steps below. The room was a startling contrast to the house’s slightly run-down exterior, full of beautifully appointed nooks and crannies. Assorted sizes and shapes of framed prints, flowered swags and hanging plants nearly covered the creamy walls, and rose-colored drapes topped the lace curtains on the triple-windowed bay. Most of her furniture looked new, except for the tables he knew she’d refinished…and that deep rose-colored chair they’d picked out together.
Apparently, she was finally spending the money she’d been awarded years ago in her dad’s wrongful-death suit.
“Nice,” he remarked grudgingly as he followed her down into the living room, a far cry from his sterile efficiency apartment in Portland.
“Thanks.” Then, as though she felt she had to explain her new residence, she added, “It’s closer to work.”
She clicked on the hurricane lamps flanking the cream-and-rose-print sofa situated catty-corner near a set of French doors. “How did you find me?”
“Your mother.”
That stopped her in midclick. Turning, she waited expectantly.
“I dropped by our old apartment first, but some woman with a bunch of cats lives there now. When she told me you’d moved back here, I assumed you were living with Arlene, so glutton-for-punishment that I am, I drove to her place.”
The flicker of sympathy and the quick sheen in Lindsay’s eyes surprised him. “Oh,” she murmured, glancing away. “How did that go?”
“About the way you’d guess.” Despite the arms-around-the-world sign marking the town limits, not everyone in picturesque little Spindrift, Maine was warm and welcoming. “I was cordial. She wasn’t. If she’d known the big bad bounty hunter was back in town, I expect she would’ve rounded up all the crucifixes and strung garlic over the doors and windows.”
Lindsay swallowed hard as the walls she’d built around her heart to keep him out began to crumble, letting the hurt back in. Dammit, she didn’t want to feel anything for him! She was seeing someone else now, trying to make a new life for herself. But the well-deep emotions Ike could always evoke refused to stay buried.
Needing a moment to regain control, she motioned him into the wing chair they’d bought at an auction a month after their marriage, then turned and started for the kitchen. “Have a seat. I made a fresh pot of coffee a while ago. I’ll pour you a cup.”
“Thanks, but I won’t be here long enough to drink it.” He didn’t speak again until she turned back. “Something happened yesterday afternoon—something that I need to look into. I can’t do that without your help.”
A heavy feeling of dread settled over her as she wandered a few steps back to him, all the while trying not to notice how well his black polo shirt fit his broad shoulders. Trying not to admit that no man had ever looked better in jeans and boots than Ike did, or that the faint shadow on his jaw and longer length of his dark brown hair only added to his blatant masculinity. Trying to forget how deeply and pathetically she’d loved him during the six months they’d been together.
She failed. If anything, their nearly two years apart had added maturity to his rugged, sexy good looks and made him even more attractive.
Nervously she moistened her lips. “Is this about us?”
“Hardly,” he replied curtly. “The last time I looked, there was no us.”
Lindsay’s hackles went up. “Dammit, Ike, don’t make me sorry I opened my door.”
“You asked a question. I answered it.”
She glared at him. Sighing wearily, she mentally counted to ten and met his dark eyes again. They were falling back into their old bickering ways, and she couldn’t handle that anymore. The harsh things they’d said to each other the last time they were together still made her cringe—because it was incomprehensible that they would ever come to that. “Maybe you should just tell me what’s on your mind so we can both get on with our evenings.” And lives.
“Fine. A young bail jumper was killed in a drive-by shooting near the Portland Police Station yesterday afternoon. It happened as Tank Exton was hauling him back to jail. Ring any bells?”
It did. Déjà vu struck hard, freezing the air in Lindsay’s lungs. Slowly, she moved a pink accent pillow aside, then lowered herself to the corner of her sofa. She looked up at Ike. “Go on.”
“Just before the Decker kid was killed, a witness heard him say that he wanted to be transferred to another facility. The skip said if he stayed there, he’d never live to testify against his dealer. He said it had happened before—two years ago.”
Chills shot through her, and images of her younger brother flashed through Lindsay’s mind: Ricky giggling and finger painting at three…Ricky pumping his short legs around the Little League bases while she, her mom and dad cheered him on…Ricky older, and defiantly telling her to butt out of his life. Suddenly she was shaking inside and her voice had lost its strength.
“Maybe the witness was mistaken. Maybe he only thought he heard—”
“The witness was an off-duty cop I know, and he wasn’t mistaken. I saw Tank at his gym this morning. He confirmed it.”
Lindsay had to stand, had to walk, had to focus on what Ike was implying and try to make sense of it. “That doesn’t mean yesterday’s shooting is related to Ricky’s death,” she said defensively. Losing him had been horrible and heartbreaking, but—but fights break out in jails. Isn’t that what they’d told her and her mother? “Isn’t the man who hit him still serving time?”
“He wasn’t hit, Lindsay, he was beaten to death, and the con who did it was already looking at a couple of life sentences. One more murder wasn’t going to increase his time behind bars. And I’d bet a year’s pay that he or his family benefited from it in some way.”
The trembling inside worked its way to her extremities as she began to realize what this could mean. “Dear God,” she breathed. To her, to her mother…and to Ike.
“The drive-by’s being investigated, but no one on the force wants to believe that the two deaths are related. The truth is they don’t want to reopen a closed case. The current crop of badasses is keeping them so busy they just plain and simple don’t have the time or the inclination to look into it. So unless some pretty substantial evidence shows up linking the crimes, Ricky’s death remains a random killing. And the person who ordered it gets off scot-free.”
Ike met her eyes, his gaze strong and determined. “If evidence exists that proves Ricky’s death was a hit, we need to find it. I need to find it. Lindsay, I’ve been living with this for two years.”
Did he think he was the only one who was still hurting? “We’ve all been living with it for two years.”
“But I’m the only one with blood on his hands.”
Lindsay’s chin jerked up. As moments ticked by, and he stood there waiting for a response, she knew she couldn’t disagree. He had been responsible. Not in the literal way he’d stated, but against her wishes, he’d put Ricky in a place that had ended his life.
He spoke quietly. “Well, since you’re not rushing to reassure me that I was just doing my job, apparently your mother isn’t the only one who still blames me.”
“Ike—”
“No, it’s okay. I’ve gotten used to it.”
But he shouldn’t have had to get used to it. And all he would’ve have to do was to listen to her.
Against her will the past rushed back, full-blown, and Lindsay tried to block it out. She didn’t want to think about that day—didn’t want to remember the flood of tears or the minister and police officer who’d come to her mother’s door. But she couldn’t stop the images, and once again she was back in her mother’s kitchen, hearing her mother’s agonizing screams for Ike to get out—that he’d delivered her only son to his executioner.
The look of helplessness in Ike’s eyes had torn her heart and her loyalties in two…until her mother had collapsed with chest pains. Lindsay had been terrified that she’d lose her mother and brother on the same day.
That day had been the beginning of the end for them. It was the first time their six-month marriage had been tested, and it was more than they could survive.
And now, Ike was telling her that Ricky’s death wasn’t just a random, unfortunate event. That someone had wanted him out of the way and had probably paid handsomely to make sure his wishes were carried out.
Horrified, she searched Ike’s expression. “Who ordered this, Ike? Who wanted Ricky dead?”
“I don’t know. Yesterday, I spoke to the narc who arrested him. He thinks Rick was hooked up with a new supplier—someone small, who’s now getting bigger, but still so far underground they don’t have a clue to his identity.”
“You should have let Tank bring him in,” she said shakily, not for the first time. “Tank had the fugitive contract on Ricky, not you.”
A glimmer of the compassionate man she’d once loved broke through his strong exterior. “I’ve explained my reasons a thousand times. Do I have to do it again?”
Shaking her head, she moved to her bay window to look out at the deepening dusk. Tank was a friend, but he tended to strong-arm skips who balked, a trait Ike was aware of since they both did legwork for the same bail bond company. And they all knew Ricky would resist—even her mother knew it—because that’s the kind of person her baby brother had become. That’s why Ike had insisted that he be the one to track Ricky down when Ricky missed his court date—no matter how hard Lindsay had pleaded for him to stay out of it. Even Tank had argued that Ricky was family and picking him up would cause more bad blood than Ike could handle. But all of their warnings had fallen on deaf ears. When Ike got something in his head—when he was convinced that he was right—nothing dissuaded him.
Deep inside, she knew Ricky would be just as dead if Tank had picked him up. But Ike’s involvement had made it so much worse because she’d begged him—and he’d said no. Her wishes had been summarily dismissed.
If Ricky had lived and her mother hadn’t fallen ill, maybe they could’ve put it all behind them. But that’s not what happened.
How tragic that he hadn’t wanted Ricky hurt…yet he’d ended up hurting all of them.
His deep voice came from behind her. “All of Rick’s things—everything from his apartment—were taken to your mother’s house and stored in his old room after his death. Unless something’s changed, we both know that nothing’s been touched since then. If there was a link to the man who ordered the hit in his effects two years ago, it’s still there. We need to find it.”
